Creeeeeed!
by degloriamacharius
Summary: The imperium is a bloated, rotting empire. For ten thousand years it has endured treachery and invasion. Yet at the close of the forty-first millenium it stagnates. Attacks from within are as common and as dangerous as the assaults without. Traitors, mutants and Xenos close in for the kill and- What the hell is that baneblade doing there! Some sort of tactical gen- "Creeeeeeeeeed!
1. Short stories of Creed

**So, i was trawling through my folders and uncovered some of these gems. After a few hours of nostalgia i thought, What the heck, might as well share them with you folks. Must warn you though, that the following is highly satirical of the setting and must, on no accounts be treated as my own opinion on this glorious hobby. Well, that's enough chatting. Enjoy!**

* * *

**L****isten up maggots!**

"So. Fresh bunch'a recruits straight off the regimental home world, huh? Got your heads full of propaganda and not much else, lemme bet. Well, listen to me and listen good, kids - probably half of what you know is nothing but ambull-shit, and you'd better get that through your heads now rather than getting a traitor's lasbolt through your head on the battlefield. Now, you pray to the Emperor like you should, and if you don't the Commissar'll blow your head off, and that'll be a mercy compared to what I'll do to ya if I find out 'fore he does - but don't be thinkin' for a second that recitin' the Litany of Protection makes you invulnerable on a battlefield.

Sure, you'll hear stories about brave Guardsmen that charged enemy positions armed with nothin' but their lasguns and their bayonets and won - and I'll even admit that probably a couple of them are true, but in an army that numbers in the billions one or two of ya are bound to get lucky every now and again, so it don't really say much. No, kids, they might make for inspirin' stories, but fanatical charges aren't what win battles. Battles are won by determination and tactics. Lemme tell you about this one time our regiment was servin' under the command of General Creed.

Never a finer tactician has the Imperial Guard ever seen than that General Creed, let me tell you. He came up with plans so devious and cunnin' you didn't even have a hope of figurin' out how he'd done what he'd done 'less he explained it to ya himself. We were fightin' on Kavara IV, what'd used to be a good Imperial world till the taint of Chaos found its way down there and turned loyal citizens into traitorous scum. At the time we'd been shipped off, we thought we were just gonna be helping the local PDF put down a small insurrection, but what with the ways of the warp by the time we got there it'd turned into a full on rebel uprisin' and all the nobles were already dead or in hidin', and another army led by General Creed had arrived to bring it back under control - we'd been missin' so long they thought we'd been lost to the warp, you see, and sent another off in our place - so we wound up joinin' forces an' bolsterin' their ranks.

Now, we got deployed into one of the urban centers that'd been taken over almost entirely by the heretics, goin' through clearing buildings of resistance and tightenin' the noose around their filthy necks. Only been gettin' minor resistance until a couple of hours in, when we stumbled across a fortified plaza that hadn't been in none of the intelligence reports. So there we were, pinned down by enemy fire, usin' rubble for cover and hopin' to the Emperor that'd we get some artillery support soon, when all of a sudden there's a tremendous rumblin' off to the right, soundin' like a column of tanks comin' up towards the buildin' we'd just cleared.

We weren't gettin' nothin' about armored support on the vox, so we was sittin' there shittin' ourselves wonderin' where the traitors had got tanks from, when all of a sudden the front of the buildin' just collapses out onto the street and a damn Baneblade rolls right on out in front of us. One blast from the main gun and it turned the heretic's position into a crater. The vox lights up and we get ourselves a message - "Armored Support courtesy of General Creed", they say. Now that's tactics, kids - we never saw it comin', so those traitors sure didn't. The application of overwhelmin' force at just the right spot at just the right moment'll turn the tide of any battle in your favor.

I took a look at that buildin' again as we were marchin' down the street in the Baneblade's wake, though. Funniest thing, the only hole in it was the one the tank'd made on its way out. How the hell we missed it when we were clearin' the place I don't know. How the hell Creed got it in there in the first place, I'm not sure I WANT to know - but let me tell you, pulling that off must've taken one hell of a tactical genius."

-Sergeant Karls addressing new recruits to the Hirian 204th, shortly before being relieved of duty and sent for psychiatric evaluation due to inexplicable urges to scream incoherently.

* * *

**Tactical genius! **

The forces of Chaos reigned victorious over the shattered city, littered with the wounded and dying Guardsmen of the Cadian 503rd. At their head, ready to deliver the killing blow to the last world between him and conquest, strode Abaddon the Despoiler himself, his Daemonblade screaming as it claimed the souls of a score of men, slashing through the staunch but futile defenses of his feeble foe. He had won. Finally, after all these centuries, he had triumphed, and begun to finish what that weakling Horus had started! And now, now it was time to put the icing on the cake, and finish off that arrogant son of a bitch Creed, as he routed like a coward nonetheless!

Beside him, his lieutenants roared in delight, cleaving through flesh and bone and steel alike, and his bodyguard made a mockery of Imperial pride. Demons from the warp, incarnations of the entropy of Khorne and Slaanesh hacked their way through droves of fleeing shock troopers, and a flanking force of the Night Lords penned in those who were left, trapping them in a great valley.

His final carnage began in a great valley, the product of a near miss by a melta torpedo. A miss that had spared the Imperials yesterday, but sealed their fates tonight! Abaddon flung himself into the fray, cleaving with full strokes the men who stood in between him and his prey, butchering wholesale with his men. The Cadians fought like men possessed, like monsters cornered. Abaddon's men were possessed, monsters in truth as well as simile, and so fought harder still. When the last corpse fell, it was Abaddon who laid it low, sending that cloak, that cigar spinning to the ground with a backhand from his mighty palm. The heavyset, gray-haired man lay flat upon the graying mud, and a pool of blood grew around him. Abaddon felt his breath quicken, and kicked the Castellan over, to see his face as the Daemonblade consumed his soul.

"I've won, Creed! I've beaten you, the Imperium is MINE for the taking! The galaxy shall burn! But not before I hear you beg, NOT BEFORE I HEAR YOU BEG!" His voice was torn with emotion, manic laughter struggled free of his throat. The figure tipped over, to lay spread eagle on its back. Silent, broken, and dead. An old man, slain by a casual blow from an immortal warrior. Abaddon felt something leave him. The rush vanished. Creed was dead. He had won... Yes. He had defeated the hero of the Imperium, but Creed was dead. And without ever even knowing that Abaddon had won. The united leader of Chaos knelt down, and screamed at the square-jawed corpse, howling in anger, in the hopes that perhaps his fleeting soul could still hear his words. "I. HAVE. WON. CR-" He froze mid-word, as he realized that the crater was silent. He stood, and thought for a moment that his men were watching him. He was mistaken, for his marines, his warriors, his cultists... Even the demons, were staring open-mouthed, at the crest of the crater that they had swept into.

For one nanosecond. For one fleeting, cursory micron of an instant, Abaddon was confused.

And then he knew. He knew what he would see when he looked up to match their gaze. He knew what he would see when he looked up, and realized why Creed had led this defensive force personally, and why he had not boarded one of the Valkyries that had escaped, or a Chimera to flee. He looked up, to see the barrels of a thousand tanks, the crested figures of ten thousand men, the whirring shapes of countless hundreds of skimmers and fighters. He saw in the distance, the smoking ruin of his flagship drifting through orbit a hundred miles away, and heard all of a sudden the unjammed signals of panicked screaming coming in from every one of his officers and aides.

_And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck._

Abaddon saw, before his eyes, his Crusade crumble. And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck. And he felt his last emotion before the guns started firing, and the torpedoes struck, and the lascannon-bolts flew. Boiling up inside of him, he opened his mouth, and screamed. And over the din of battle, though battle cannon roared and basilisk whistled, though lasgun cracked and Guardsmen cried out with tears in their eyes the name of their savior, no voice cried so loudly as Abaddon the Fool's, whose hatred of one man had cost him a victory that could have changed the galaxy, the one man whose name he now invoked. That magnificent bastard. That tactical geniu-

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!

* * *

**The great game**

The mortal moved his piece. Tzeentch, Lord of Change and Master of Destinies moved his. They were playing a game of chess. The stakes were high: if the mortal won, Tzeentch, all his daemons and followers would retreat to the Warp for all time and would never again attempt to harry the mighty Imperium of Man in any way be it directly or indirectly. If Tzeentch won (which, of course, he knew he would), the soul of the mortal went to Tzeentch. These stakes obviously seemed skewed in favor of the mortal, but there were several factors to consider.

The mortal moved another piece.

Tzeentch moved another piece.

Tzeentch had wanted this particular soul for what might have been 10 million years, or maybe 5 minutes. Who could tell in the Warp? The problem was, it was pledged to the accursed corpse-god on Terra. So Tzeentch had sought him out and challenged him.

The mortal moved.

Tzeentch moved.

Also Tzeentch, as Master of Fates, knew that he would win. He had to. He had been planning for this game for centuries before the mortal in question was ever born. He had watched, planned, schemed, and acted to ensure that the mortal would learn a certain chess strategy, one that he just "happened" to have a perfect counter to.

Another move by the mortal.

Another move by Tzeentch.

Finally, the idea of a Chaos God focusing so much on a single soul, or making such an enormous bargain was inconceivable, a fact that had never once changed, not even for Warmaster Horus. What was Tzeentch, if not the Lord of Change? So went the reasoning (if the thought process of a Chaos God can be called such) of Tzeentch.

The mortal went on for several turns.

Tzeentch went on for several turns.

Finally, the mortal got a smug look on his face. Tzeentch's beak curled into something resembling a smile. He held his head up high. The mortal moved a piece. Tzeentch spoke, in a voice that was ever shifting and could drive men mad.

"Mortal, do you not know who I am? Let me tell you. I am Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways. The Master of Fate. The Lord of Change. The Controller of Destinies. I have existed before the stars, and I will exist long after they have died. No mere mortal could possibly-"

Then Tzeentch spared a glance at the board.

"What is that pawn doing there?"

Tzeentch stared, utterly dumbstruck. His eyes bulged and his beak dropped. He saw the reason for the mortal's smugness.

It was checkmate.

A very small part of Tzeentch was glad. After all, being unintentionally defeated was certainly a change for him. Also, no longer interfering in the affairs of the mortal galaxy was definitely a change.

However, that was just a very small part.

Tzeentch let out a cry of rage. It was a cry that echoed throughout the Warp, driving Imperial psykers insane and Chaos sorcerers more insane. It was a cry containing a subconscious command. All across the galaxy, the daemons of Tzeentch vanished from the material world, never to return. His mortal followers began retreating, heading towards the Eye of Terror. All the Gods, daemons, and mortal followers of Chaos took notice. In the Warp near Terra, the mighty soul of the God-Emperor of Mankind himself took notice. He smiled, for he knew what it meant. It was a cry that was to echo in the Warp throughout eternity, long after the stars themselves died. It was the cry of a defeated god.

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"


	2. The many adventures of Creed

**Yep, totally going to beat the dead horse over here with these ones. Also bear in mind that Creed can no longer do this without the specific warlord trait. Which sucks. But, we'll keep his memory going wont we lads!**

"Didn't we just come from the west?"  
"Yeah, so?"  
"Well, where the fuck did the trio of smoke-belching motherfucking battle tanks in the west come from? There's not even anywhere to hide! This is a barren snow world!"  
"I dunno. Tactical Genius?"  
"CREEEEEEEEED!

* * *

"So there we were right, ready to charge the loyalist scum, and then suddenly we were under fire from our west flank. Batshit mental. We turn to return fire, and somehow they sneaked a bunker in, right next to us? We didn't have any meltas so we got the hell out of there."  
*Chaos Commisar executes traitor*  
"CREEEEED!"

* * *

"So, there we were, in the middle of our Craftworld, planning our next raid on those filthy Mon-Keigh. Suddenly, the western tower exploded. They had somehow managed to sneak in three of those 'Titans'."  
"How did they manage to sneak three war machines the size of building complexes into the middle of a Craftworld?"  
"They had a Tactical Genius on their side."  
"CREEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

\- Shas'el: we were engaging the Gurre'va in the caverns, where we had laid the trap, but suddenly the tide turned. A Gurre'va 'Volcano cannon' burst from beneath us, where a superheavy walker of some kind had been planted in some kind of cavern.  
\- Shas'o: But how? We had scanned the caverns for three cycles before we chose it as the ideal location to spring the trap. Who could do this?  
\- Shas'el: He must be some kind of tactical geniu-  
Shas'o: "CREEEEEED!"

* * *

"We wuz in wunna dem big flying fings dat git us to da fight, an' da boss wus gettin' a bit angry from muckin' about fer several days. So's us boyz tried to stay away from 'im cuz we dun wanna get krumped."  
"Wut happened den?"  
"Three 'umie battlewagons exploded da walls wiv dere kannons."  
"Where da zog did dose wagons come from?"  
"Dunno. Da boss ses it wos some kinda smott taktiks."  
"CREEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So the cultists were charging straight up to their gunline, right, with the tanks and shit close behind. Cultists were dying in droves, but then that's what they're there for. Just before they got there, we hear a rustling over to the left. We go and check it out, and there's just a bush. Nothing else - then out of nowhere a fucking BANEBLADE pops up from behind it and slaughters everyone! The guy must have been some sort of tactical geniu-"  
"CREEEEEED!"

* * *

"So there we were, in the webway, coming back with some slaves from the craftworlds. Suddenly a Filthy Mon'keigh 'Valkyrie' amushes us form god knows where, shoots down my raider, and unloads some ogryns. How they managed to get in the webway I don't know, no sort of tactical geniu-"  
"CREEEEEEEEED!" "But-But, valykries can't transport Ogryns..." "Yeah, geting Ogryns on a Valkyre would require some kind of tactical geni...

CREEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So I managed to pull of the eraser-between-the-doors trick on Creed, right, and he was pissed but I thought I'd gotten away with it, what with my shiny Inquisitorial rosette telling him that shooting me would be a bigass mistake."  
"Yeah? And?"  
"Well, the next day I wake up, turn off the alarm in my Servitor's head, make breakfast, do my morning exercises – all is as usual. Then I hear this racket from my wardrobe. I swing to the doors open and, suddenly, Demolishers! The guy must be some kind of tactical geniu"–  
"CREEEEEEED!"

* * *

"We were just waking the Tomb World Overseer up after millennia of stasis, and were 83% through the process, when several gigantic armored vehicles burst through the pyramid walls and started spewing corrosive venom over us."  
"Does not compute."  
"According to our calculations, it had to be the work of a tactical geni-"  
"CREEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

Shas'ui: Sir, we were busy fighting an ork incursion when suddenly, some sort sort of super heavy tank fell out of the sky and landed on both wings of our suit squadrons! it then proceeded to destroy everything in sight!

Farsight: That's patently impossible. How could that even work?

Shas'ui. It must be the work of a tactical gen-

Farsight: CREEEEEEEEEEEEEED!

* * *

"How in Aun'va's name did they sneak a Baneblade on board a Manta that was in the damn air? It was miles above the battlefield! And how the hell did they fit it inside?"  
"No idea, Shas'o. Must have been some sort of tactical genius."  
"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"We were in the sewers beneath Altdorf, about to release poison to kill-kill all the man-things, when all of a quick-quick this Baneblade appeared and kill-killed all of the slaves and most of the Stormvermin!"

"How is that possible? We're not even in the same galaxy-galaxy as 40K?! "

"Must have been some kind of Tactical-Tactical Geni-

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

Mark Wells: "Who the hell are you people and what are you doing in my office?"  
Squat: "I'm not sure. This had to be the work of a tactical geni-"  
Mark Wells: "CREEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So, it was the 13th black crusade, I had a host of 666 greater deamons behind me, and the support of half a dozen chapter and millions of cultists. We could not possibly fail! Cadia was to be razed to the ground!"

"Then what happened?

"A dozen superheavy imperial ship appeared out of nowhere and shot my flagship to pieces."

"sounds like the work of a tactical-"

..."CREEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So I was out there, killing indiscriminately for the blood god, when I feel something funny in this one skull I claimed. so I look inside, and damned Commisar Yarrick climbs out of it, punches me in the face with his power claw, and he pulls out a baneblade and runs me and most of the local cultists with it!"

"By the dark gods, How he'd get in there?"

"must be the work of a tactical gen-"

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"There I was, I'd just, by my usual tactical genius, managed to divert ONE HUNDRED Baneblades to aid in one of the most crucial battles of our time, seriously, it was like every race was at this fucking system.

And I get a note that the baneblades I've just busted my balls to tactically divert have just simply "gone missing".

It would have to take some amazing tactical ineptitude t...

VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!"

* * *

Creed has secretly replaced Abbadon's favorite chair with a baneblade. Let's see if he notices."

Daemon prince: "Forward my minions! Imperial maggots are in disarray!"  
*CLANG*  
Daemon prince: "What the fuck was that?"  
Aspiring champion: It's... a battlebarge, lord. You ran headfirst right into it."  
Deamon prince: "But... HOW!?"  
Aspiring champion: "Must've been some tactica-"  
Daemon prince: "CRRRRR... Ah, fuck it. Signal the troops, we're going home."

* * *

"So there I was doing a 2 minute ling rush against a Terran player. Then all of sudden my lings get pwned by a fucking huge ass baneblade."

"How the fuck did the Terran player build a baneblade, they're not even in the same game!"

"It must be the work of a tactical gen-"

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

*Ragequit*

* * *

"So there we are, completely surrounded by the traitors on all sides, ready to give our lives up for the Emperor, when suddenly, we hear laughter."  
"Laughter?"  
"Yes. After a few seconds, a few of the Chaos Marines start falling over, clutching their sides. Then even more. Soon, all of them had laughed themselves to death."  
"But that's impossible! It would take some kind of comical genius to pull that off!"  
"CREEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So there I was, doing a little comedy ditty to this small-time old club back on Commoragh, and just as I got to the punchline a motherfucking baneblade rolled out from behind my microphone and shot ALL of the audience! Whoever got it there must have been some kind of tactical geniu-"

"CREEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So there I was being a poor Agri-worker under the oppressive rule of our new chaos overlords, just picking berries, when I thought that it'd make my job a lot easier if the damn bush didn't keep sticking me wth its lascannons, when all of a sudden a baneblade drives out from behind it and crushes Jeb flat as a pankcake! Whoever got it there must have been a tactical geniu-"

"CREEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So there we were on Cadia shooting their Leman Russes and pathetic guardsmen, right, when I hear this massive crunching sound behind me. So I look around, and it turns out that my bodyguard had been a baneblade all along! Whoever did that must have been a tactical geniu-"

"CREEEEED!"

* * *

The aspiring champion Durga and his squad advanced towards the Imperial trenches on the hills. A huge explosion detonated to his right and smashed trough the armour of two of his fellow Space Marines. Deep within his dark soul he felt angiush for loosing his battle-brothers. He and his black armoured warriors were now mere metres away from the imperial trenches.  
With a snarl from their champion the chaos marines hurled themselves at the imperial guardsmen and the slaughter began anew. Durga snapped the neck of the closest guardsmen with a swing of his boltpistol. Another fell to his powersword. The spilling of blood made him feel good and the pain of loosing his battle brothers was gone by now. Bolts from Durga's boltpistol pierced the guardsmen before exploding in bloody sprays. The champion smiled grimly to himself. Who are these petty humans to deny them their prize?

He knelt down to pick up one of the severed human heads to signal the destruction of the imperial fortifications. But something was amiss. Under the frail human skull a company of demolisher tanks emerged with guns blazing. Cursing wildly the Black Legion champion rolled to his side avoiding one of the rampaging tanks with mere inches. In front of he saw a wounded guardsman rise to his feet. "What kind of terrible cruel joke is this?" eruputed from the vox grille of the ornate marine. The guardsman turned his head with a grin from ear to ear. " Joke? This is the work of a TACTICAL GEN-"

CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED

* * *

"So there I am, fighting the Elite Four, and I go to send out my Charizard, but when I throw my Pokeball, three freakin' Leman Russes appear and start blowing up the arena!"

"What?! That doesn't even make sense!"

"I know! It must have taken some kind of tactical geniu-"

"CREEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"Sir the tyranid hive fleet is almost upon us!"

"Worry not arbiter..."

"WHAT!? How did you infiltrate the entire Imperium BEHIND the hive fleet!?"

"Tactical genius, arbiter... tactical genius..."

Tyranids: "CREEEEEEEEEEEED!"

* * *

"So we're desecrating this temple to their corpse-god, right..."  
"Hold on, gotta take a piss."  
"Oh sure, slaves just installed a new port-a-potty."  
"Be right back."  
"Cree-Aaarrgghh!"  
"…. Frank?"

* * *

"So, there I am, ready to conquer in the name of the Chaos Gods, when suddenly, my troops lose morale and withdraw."  
"Holy shit, man. That's harsh. Must have taken some kind of tactical retar-"  
"SIIIINDRIIIII!"


	3. Writefaggotry!

**You know, I don't even know why I'm doing this... it's almost as if I'm glorifying the man. That would take some kind of tactical geni-**

**Creeeeeeeeeeeeeed!**

The small woman glanced down at her clipboard, then looked back up at the hulking figure that had finally finished adjusting itself on her poor couch. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it back behind her glasses, and sighed inwardly. Being the best counselor in the galaxy had its drawbacks sometimes. Still, the pay was good. Tapping her pen on the clipboard, she began.

"So tell me, Mr… uhm… Despoiler; where do you think your stress comes from?"

Abaddon shifted on her couch again, his terminator-armored bulk threatening to flatten the valiant furniture. "Where doesn't it come from," he sighed, his voice surprisingly soft for the most feared champion of the dark gods. "I mean, there's the gods themselves at the top of the pile: Khorne's always teasing me that Kharn's got more kills than I have – up-close-and-personal ones, mind, Khorne doesn't like all this newfangled stuff like the Planet Killer – and Tzeentch never shuts up about me being so predictable. And then there's Nurgle. Warp dammit that guy could give a daemonette weight issues. Doom this and despair that and decay the other."

The counselor nodded understandingly. "I can sympathize with that," she said. She could – her ex had gotten involved with Nurgle back in the 960's. He had said it helped him deal with his depression, but she hadn't believed him. Proving him wrong was one of the reasons she had taken up psychotherapy. "Is there anything… closer to home… than that, though?"

He hummed a bit. "Like the other champions?"

"If you like," she said patiently. The trouble with megalomaniacs was that they could never really accept that someone else knew more than them. They had to be led along oh-so-carefully. Especially Tzeentchian ones – her hardest client yet had been one of Ahriman's Cabal claiming to be bipolar (it turned out he was just suffering a mild bout of warp-induced madness and paranoia, but the sorceror would have none of it).

"Well, Ahriman's always been a bit of a pretentious git." (Speak of the devil, thought the counselor.) Abaddon flexed the Talon of Horus, and she winced imperceptibly as it took another inch of cushioning off the arm of her couch. "He never knows when to shut up, that one doesn't. Even Magnus doesn't want to talk to him when he's around, and that old cyclops could talk the pustules off Nurgle."

"Is there anything in particular that Mr Ahriman says that has a major effect on you?" she asked, marking 'JEALOUSY - FEELS INADEQUATE?' on her clipboard.

Abaddon frowned. "Not really, I suppose. He's always going on about how he would have done the Black Crusades so much better than I did, but then everyone does that these days – not that I see any of them stepping up for a go."

"And any of the other champions of Chaos?"

"Not really. Typhus is usually off doing his own thing with the Terminus Est, which is a relief really, the guy stinks worse than Mortarion these days. Lucius is busy doing whatever it is that Lucius does down on some daemon world or another – sure, the guy heads out for a quick raid every now and then, but it's pretty easy to distract him, all things considered."

She nodded. "And Kharn?"

"Kharn? Kharn's actually a pretty cool guy, once you get to know him. Gets a bit carried away every now and then, but its all part of his charm. It's not like he doesn't give people ample warning – he is called the betrayer, after all. No, Kharn's never bothered me much. He comes along on most of my Crusades, and we usually end up having a good laugh."

He leaned back. "Reminds me of this one time we were assaulting Cadia – I think it was back in M34, actually – and it ended up with just the two of us and some traitor company, the Red Rivers, I think they called them. Something to do with a river of blood or something like that, but Kharn had taken quite a shine to them. Anyway, we were stuck outside on of the Kasrs, and Kharn gets the brilliant idea to take one of the Rivers' landers and do some aerial reconnaissance. So up we go, along with a few dozen of the Rivers to pilot the damned thing, and we see the Kasrkin all there in the main square doing some parade or other."

Abaddon grinned. "Out of nowhere, Kharn grabs up one of the Rivers and just throws him right out of the hatch! He fell so fast he nearly exploded when he hit the ground! Turns out he hit one of the Kasrkin right on the head, got blood everywhere, and the guy's powerpack detonates! Before I could even congratulate him or tell him we've got a heavy bolter strapped to the wing, Kharn's throwing more traitors down at record speed. The Kasrkin are all scattering, and Kharn keeps hitting them."

He chuckled. "Of course, he had to stop eventually. There was only one of the Rivers left, and we needed him to fly us back to camp, but before we turned back around, Kharn grabs my arm and tells me to look down at the Kasr. Lo and behold, all the Kasrkin Kharn had hit had left big blood and scorch marks on the ground, and he'd managed to spell out a message! Want to know what it was?"

She nodded.

"It was a haiku:

Inside your Kasr Is where we'll be tomorrow So clean up would you?

"Let me tell you," Abaddon said, "I about laughed my topknot off. When I managed to turn around, I saw Kharn high-fiving the pilot – afterwards I found out it put the guy in traction for two solid weeks – but when he turns to me he whispers:

"I was trying to draw a boat."

Abaddon chuckled. "Kharn's one swell guy. Always sees the best in things."

The counselor was, for the first time in her life, speechless. She just didn't know what to say to that tale. She leaned forwards, adjusting her glasses.

"So yeah," said Abaddon, "the stress. What was it you were asking me about ag...ain…" he trailed off as he noticed a glint in her eyes. Abruptly, he realized – the belching smoke, the grimy tracks, the slowly rotating turret-

His psychotherapist was a Leman Russ Demolisher.

Roaring, he leapt off the couch as a flurry of heavy bolter rounds tore it to shreds. Lightning wreathed the Talon of Horus, and he dropped into a crouch, cursing himself for not realizing it sooner. He dodged to the side as the turret fired, sending a demolisher shell straight through the window of the office.

Abaddon lashed out with Drach'nyen. The daemonsword tore a burning gash out of the side of the tank, but it gunned its engine and accelerated away through the wall, trying to get enough range to use its weapons against him.

To replace his counselor with a Leman Russ without him knowing could only have been pulled off by some kind of tactical genius-

"CREEEEEEED!" bellowed Abaddon as he charged after the tank. "I'll have your head spitted on my talon! I'll hang your guts from my armor spikes! I'll-" He was cut short as a lascannon beam forced him to lurch awkwardly sideways.

"I'll rip out your toenails and use them to eat your eyes!" he shouted, finding his rhythm again. "I'll tear you out of your metal box and feed you to the thousand terrors of the warp! I'll... do very nasty things to your mother!"

At this, the tank rumbled forwards, its sponsons roaring to life. Bolts thundered out at Abaddon, most going wide, but many still hammered into his armor. He forced his way through the storm and met the oncoming tank head-on, ramming Drach'nyen through the driver's slit and feeling it bite deep into something behind it. Even as the tank's dozer blade smashed into his shins he shouted in triumph and ripped the daemonsword upwards.

With the power of the gods of Chaos coursing through him, the tank came up with the sword, rising in an immense arc until it tore free of the blade and went crashing over his head and through three walls.

Startled heads peeked around the edges of the newly opened hole as Abaddon stalked towards the smoking remains of the tank. It had landed upside down, and had crumpled under its own weight. No man could have survived it, but Abaddon wanted to make sure.

Using the Talon as a shovel, he dug his way through the tank until he came to the crew compartment. Instead of finding the smashed and ruined body of his nemesis, though... there was a note. Frowning, he picked it up.

_Dear Abaddon the Despoiler, If you thought this was good, wait until you see what I did to your flagship._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Ursakar E. Creed_

"CRREEEEEEEEEEEEED!"


	4. A true story

**So to finish this epic saga of Creed, a true story, back in the days of sixth edition. I've dramatised the story first, but the tl;dr edition is below it, and is my actual story. I have used Creed since, inspired by that first display, but never have I equalled or bettered it, usually I just outflanked demolishers or hellhounds. I still hope for the warlord trait as well, so as to rightly screw them over, and managed to outflank my shadowsword lord of war in a two thousand point game in 7E. That was fun. Volcano cannon right up an eldar revanant titan's jacksy.**

My name is Brother-Captain Eshara of the Winged Templars, successor chapter of the Imperial fists. I lead the fourth battle-company, one hundred of the finest warriors mankind has to offer. For six hundred years I have fought against every major threat to our Imperium, battling Greenskins, Eldar raiders, traitors and many more. I can say, without a doubt, that there is no fighting force superior, we have no equal in warfare. Except perhaps, for one man.

Yes, one man, not a superhuman soldier, bred for war and victory, but a human, experienced yes but still only human. His name was Ursarkar E. Creed. It is said that he was found an orphan, in Kasr Gallan in the Cadian system, holding nothing but a service pistol and a tattered copy of 'De Gloria Macharius'. A fitting start for one who would rise so high.

It was at the dawn of the forty-second millennium that I fought alongside him. The tau had launched yet another invasion sphere at our most blessed Imperium seizing many worlds, but most importantly the hive world of Agrellan, a gateway planet whose orbit protected a rich cluster of compliant worlds.

As the xenos filth marched through imperial space, a general call was sounded. Hundreds of regiments were redirected into retaking our worlds. With such a threat, the call was met with the reply of over forty different chapters, each sending a contingent of warriors to help punish these interlopers. None would stay imperial wrath.

Except they did. On twenty three planets they stood, and on twenty three planets we fought. But it was like fighting shadows, for their forces, led by the shrewd Shadowsun, moved like smoke, launching devastating raids and ambushes that struck fear into our mortal allies.

It was galling, they were using our tactics against us, the mighty space marines and robbing us of momentum. Many died.

But they pushed us back, forced us out. We held the naval superiority our vessels much bigger and more manoeuvrable, but on the ground we suffered.

And it showed. We were forced onto the hive world of Fallancia, into one of the hive cities, Gratum. It was defensible and it was here we had been forced to congregate. So many other cities had already caved into their treacherous demands and lies, bending the knee to their diplomats rather than to our God-Emperor.

The city backed into a tall mountain range, the defences making a semicircle about the apartments. We had been reduced to about two hundred marines and eight regiments of imperial guard, some armoured, some infantry and some artillery. One company of PDF also garrisoned the streets, but it seemed pitiful against the might Shadowsun had brought to play.

My brothers made their peace before the battle and the bravery of the guard showed, for they stood their ground. The citizens fled into the mountain range, hiding deeper and deeper in fear of reprisal of the xenos.

My brothers held the bastion towers, a well defended complex that was pivotal in allowing us vox-access to our ships as well as keeping the defences and gun batteries working. If this fell, then the battle was lost and so it was guarded with the very best warriors. Inside the tower stood eighty veterans, half in the vaunted tactical-dreadnought armour and the other half a mix of sternguard and vanguard. The rest of my brothers were spaced out on the walls, inspiring the guardsmen to acts of faith and bravery by showing them what true faith yielded. I was not in overall command, standing alongside my command team within the bastion towers.

It filled my heart to see some many brothers from different chapters united in our hatred of a common foe, even if we did not expect to win.

The assault, when it came was brutal. The skimmer transports ranged ahead, deploying fire teams against the walls. Waves of lasfire brought xenos down, but their own tanks replied, gouging bloody holes into the walls. Stealth units crept in, identifying targets of priority. My brothers were forced to defend the artillery from countless sabotage attempts.

We were holding, just. Whilst some of the perimeter had been compromised, none took one step back and we fought them in brutal firefights down the streets, bolters and lasguns barking as they sent pulses of plasma back at us. The guard suffered horrendously.

And then the coup de grace. A trio of Manta type ships arrived. With a volley, they crippled the walls, slaying many battle-brothers and countless guardsmen. And then came the battlesuits. Thousands of them poured from the sky right into the bastion towers. The courtyard became filled with the burning wrecks of proud tanks and field pieces and the suits entered the complex.

The fight was no lighter here than outside, if not harder for these weren't brave humans, but veterans of hundreds of battles. But it was desperate.

The tau now had control of the air, in space their navy was being reinforced heavily and on the ground, we had lost the outermost defences and were losing ground in the streets. The bastion towers were under attack and it looked grim.

I could hear, from my helmets vox-network, that Admiral Jameson was calling for a retreat. That tings were hopeless and that if they did not go, then they never would. But Silver Skulls master of the fleet, Captain Daerys Arrun, was a stubborn bastard and wouldn't retreat if , Emperor save us, an entire Tyranid hive fleet was bearing down upon him.

As famed members of many different first companies fell, I sprinted up the complex to high command. It had taken a bit of a hit by a stray railgun, killing much of the leadership. It was a mess, but the vox systems still worked. There was no point holding on. I planned on taking as many as possible into the mountains, so that we could wage a guerilla war on the tau occupying forces.

"Lord general" I called. "It is time to retreat. We have done what we could. The Codex Astartes does not favour pointless last stands." I said, my helmet making the voice sound devoid of emotion.

There were few people in the room, most wounded, some dying. They looked up and nodded, aides running to vox-horns to sound the general retreat. But one small group stood on the balcony, not moving. "Wait" shouted one of them, a middle-aged man draped in a cape. "The lord general is dead. I am in command."

I scowled. Inter regimental politics was not what we needed. "then sound the retreat. We do not serve the Emperor needlessly dead." I growled.

"No, we do not." he said, turning to me. "Jarran, pass me the Vox-horn and get me into the overall command-net." he said to the man next to him, holding a great banner by his side. I was surprised and walked forwards to the balcony. It was a good viewing spot for the battle, and it looked bad. Already the tau had taken up most of the city, and imperial companies were fleeing in panic. My own brothers either lay dead or pinned.

The man named Jarran reached over and grabbed the vox-horn from a nearby terminal. He put something into it and passed the horn over to his general. The general took it and raised it to his lips.

"Princeps. You have my leave."

Princeps? We had no support from the legio titanicus... and they wouldn't last long. The plains before the city were open, something as slow as a titan would be spotten and destroyed.

Over the vox, I heard some chatter from the scouts. Something about a waterfall. I stepped forwards, seeking this landmark.

The waterfall was massive. About two hundred metres tall and it fell into a deep river that meandered half the continent. Whilst I had considered it a threat, it wasn't, for the rockface came straight up against the water. It was outside the city, so I hadn't paid it much thought. But the tau had. Many of their tanks sat there, pounding our walls and buildings with their weapons, bringing many to an ignoble death by falling masonry.

And then it happened. The waterfall shifted and from it walked not one, but three god-machines of the titans legions. Three warhound class titans, hidden as the rockface behind the waterfall. Something neither side had realised until Creed had sprung his trap.

As one, the titans let rip, bringing one of the manta's down and sending the other two fleeing to the back. Other weapons roared, sweeping aside their tanks and heavy support. I watched as these machines attacked the wing of the tau army and utterly obliterated it.

Creed spoke some more words, and about the city, squads of guardsmen rose up and charged the tau. Volleys of plasma cut them down, but co-ordinated strikes from artillery took them out. The guardsmen slowly pushed the tau back.

Signalling my own brothers about this change in events, I gave overall command to Creed and joined the fray. We had lost many warriors, only fifty of us remained, but we accompanied the guardsmen in purging the city. It was still close. Shadowsun recovered quickly, the mantas returning to drop more suits and tanks in our midst. Fresh waves of infantry met us and once more battle was joined.

The famous tau general herself wrought havoc amongst the Leman Russ companies, but our advance would not be stopped. We killed the battlesuits, destroyed their vehicles and crippled their command. Another Manta went down, exploding violently amongst the tau.

One of the Warhounds collapsed, its void banks overloaded by the sheer volume of fire directed at them. As in revenge for this, the other two trampled fleeing warriors under their feet, critically damaging the remaining Manta and forcing the Tau to retreat.

After a few more hours of violence, the tau had retreated. Both on the ground and in space. We had beaten the odds and won. But the cost was high. Only four terminators walked again and many brave brothers had fallen in battle. Thousands of guardsmen littered the street wounded, dying or dead. A costly victory, but a victory nonetheless.

We purged the remaining planets of the Xenos filth and made our separate ways, new friendships and bonds of fellowship made with the variety of chapters.

But it was Creed's master stroke that won the day. A brilliant piece of tactical acumen and forward thinking. Even now as the dread warmaster, Abaddon the Despoiler makes his way out of the eye, the thirteenth black crusade, at the head of thousands upon thousands of traitors, daemons and foul heretics, I wish him luck. For Creed is watching. And Creed is waiting.

* * *

**What really happened**

**Well, the tau codex had just come out, and my gaming group was pretty excited, because lots of us had tau models (Because they're weaboos, including me), so we decided to hold a campaign, set in the third expansion sphere. So we spent a couple of days making the boards and everything, bringing our models over and stuff.**

**It was big. Usually it was a bunch of smaller games, 1000 points each or something. I myself helped both imperials and tau forces, switching teams. There were only two dedicated imperial players so lots of joined the tau side, about three were totally hardcore players for tau.**

**Well, the Imperium lost. We ended up deciding to hold a massive finale to decide their fate, in this massive city. It was awesome. 10,000 points of imperial guard and space marines vs about 20,000 points of tau. They were so screwed, we thought.**

**Lots of models had lent to allow both armies to fill out their rosters, I lent some infantry and most of my tanks for example. The battle began, the first few turns, the imperium holding it out strongly.**

**And then the mantas came, three of them. We'd chipped in for Christmas a couple of years back, all together and some of the really hardcore players had bought these massive, forgeworld models. And they were really rich (We all were, we play this sodding game after all, don't we)**

**Anyway, I didn't own a manta, so I kept on throwing fire warriors at their front gates, but these ships just sent most of the battlesuits right down their throat. The space marine player lost loads of termies, tanks and his warlord got chewed up by a deepstriking hammerhead.**

**Really fun. It was about turn five now and we were in the city, fighting it out against a small force of marines and guard. It was their turn.**

**And the guard player gave us this massive troll grin as he rolled the reserves die. And then, from under the table, pulled out three (3!) warhound scout titans. Never knew he had them till then. We hadn't been able to look over each others list so they were surprised at the mantas and we were surprised by the titans. **

**Naturally, we threw a fit, demanding to see how he could outflank the titans. He pulled out the 5e guard codex and pointed to Creed's entry. Now it says they have the scout rule, due to his tactical genius rule, but that allows them to outflank, if I remembered correctly.**

**And now we had three titans on our flank. We got pwned. No kidding. Two mantas went done, one crashing right over our army, the other exploding. **

**Complete and utter cock-up. Our side ended up running off the board. Some of my team mates were swearing bloody murder. I bought Creed the next day.**

**(That last line was a reference to the next campaign, the black crusade, where I helped in the effort of kicking that armless failure back onto the shelf, along with mandrakes, assault squads and pyrovores. And flayed ones. seriously, they suck.)**


	5. bibliography?

**I found where my bro got these stories from, so if you're interested in more like this follow the link**

** /wiki/Creed**

**I hope you'll enjoy it, I haven't been on the site before but it looks... interesting.**

**Cheers to the guy who picked up on it, because I would not of given it a second thought otherwise. My thanks to whomever you are. **

**Have a good one!**


End file.
